Captain
by pandorad24
Summary: "There you are," said Mycroft. "Captain Holmes. Now, stop this nonsense, Sherlock. Captains don't cry." In which a young Sherlock Holmes receives Mycroft's own special brand of comfort, in the way only a brother would know he needed. Kidlock oneshot.


It was breaching on the summer of 1983. The six-year-old boy (almost _seven_, he was sure to remind his brother at the most recent mention of his age with as much indignant pretention as he could muster) knelt at the open window of his father's study, knobby knees digging into the hardwood floor and skinned elbows hiked up on the narrow sill to support the antique telescope he held to his squinting eye. Through the age-clouded lens, he followed the progress of a robin bobbing along on the too-green expanse of crisply trimmed lawn, watching intently as it yanked a worm free from the soil. He expected the bird to eat it, to throw back its head and slurp it down like the spaghetti pasta he'd pushed around his plate the night previous, but with a rapid flash of its feathers, it vanished from his pinprick of visibility.

By the time he had torn his gaze away from the telescope, the robin was just fluttering to a perch at the roof of the garden gazebo. With a fascinated kind of curiosity, he returned his eager eye to the telescope and studied the scarlet-breasted bird leaning over its nest. It looked like one of his mother's fine ceramics, meticulously crafted into a seamless bowl using wound-up blades of dried grass. Peeking over the rim were tiny little mouths, bright yellow beaks spread wide for the squirming offering from above. He watched them eat, wondering vaguely if the taste was anything like spaghetti pasta.

"Sherlock. Close the window, you're letting in the insects."

His father had returned from work. Reserving a grumble for the privacy of his thoughts as he pulled the glass shutters shut, Sherlock insisted that _surely_ the insects would not make too terrible an addition to the house. He liked to watch them crawl and waggle their antennas in the air; to sometimes pick them apart and organize the separate pieces, to see what was inside. Besides, the quality of conversation with any variety of insect would differ little from the standard one-way exchange of words between him and either one of his parents.

He waited a moment, standing with the telescope clutched in his hand. His father was seated at his desk, papers splayed in front of him, reading glasses perched low on the bride of his nose. He drew a stabilizing breath. "Daddy, will you play pirates with me?"

"Sherlock." The voice was strained, wavering on impatience. "Why don't you go see if Mycroft will play with you."

"I'll let you be captain." It was an offer of great sacrifice, most likely made in vain, but a twinge of desperation was easily perceptible in the small voice. "I'll let you hold the telescope."

"Sherlock." Even at six _(almost seven, Mycroft),_ he was well familiar with that tone. It wasn't a request.

Nevertheless, he stood there a while longer – until he was sure his father had completely forgotten about him – and then dejectedly made his leave, bare feet padding audibly against the polished floor.

Mycroft was in his room, studying a thick book at his usual place by the window, though the curtains were drawn and Sherlock wondered why he didn't let the light in. Mycroft was stupid.

Sherlock approached the sixteen-year-old, telescope in hand and oversized tricorn hat perched haphazardly on his head, competing with his curls in the task of completely concealing his eyes. He opened his mouth to make his request, but Mycroft overruled him with a muttered, "I'm busy, Sherlock."

"Daddy's more busy," Sherlock reasoned flatly. "Come play pirates with me."

The other boy's eyes never left his book, eyes scanning languidly over the page. "Why don't you ask one of the boys down the road?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "They're stupid." _And they don't like me, anyway._

Mycroft sighed and gave no further response for an additional two minutes, in which Sherlock stood by expectantly, waiting for the older boy's will to crack. He began to tap his feet. This tapping was soon accompanied by a tuneless humming that grew increasingly more obnoxious as the seconds dragged on, which he thought was sure to strike a nerve, at least make a dent in the boy's concrete exterior. Still, no sign of acknowledgement crossed Mycroft's face. Mycroft turned the page.

Finally, with great reluctance: "I'll let you be captain."

Mycroft turned to him, a small sort of triumphant smile playing on his face. "Hand over the hat."

* * *

Mummy and Daddy were arguing again. The echoes of their shouts breached the sanctuary of his bedroom walls easily, and Sherlock sat against the headboard with his knees drawn to his chest, palms clasped around his ears. He wondered if the family of robins cradled in their nest outside could hear how they screamed at each other, if they knew how he envied their wings. His mother and father seemed two strangers by day and mortal enemies by night. He visualized their battleships, cannons loaded with verbal artillery.

"_Shut up!"_

Bang.

And then, a quiet voice outside his door, such a contrast to the bullets piercing his ears. _"Sherlock."_

The door inched open with a shrill creak, and Mycroft stepped through the crack without waiting for a reply, shutting it quickly behind. The curly-headed boy stared at him, not removing the hands from his ears. There was a lump burning in his throat.

Without a word, Mycroft made straight for the bed and sat cross-legged in front of him, reaching up to pull Sherlock's hands away. He resisted, curling up more securely into himself. He didn't want to listen to them shout. He didn't want to hear Mycroft's consolations. What did Mycroft know? Mycroft was stupid. Mycroft got to go away to boarding school each year where he didn't have to listen to them scream at one another, where he couldn't be ignored and told to _"Get out, Sherlock," "Leave Mummy alone for right now, Sherlock,"_ because he was already gone. What did Mycroft know?

A tear wound its way down the smaller boy's cheek. "Go away," he ordered softly, voice wavering. "Leave me alone, like you always do." He could hear them downstairs, he could hear his own heartbeat hammering hot blood through his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the look on Mycroft's face. "Go away!"

Fingers wrapped around his wrists, gently but forcefully pulling his hands away. "Sherlock. Look at me."

Slowly, as if to protest, he complied. The profile of his brother swam before him in a saline blur, fat and round-faced. Sherlock felt wetness on his cheeks and choked out a frustrated sob. He could hear the muffled crash of another one of Mummy's fine ceramic bowls.

"Shush, shush," the older boy soothed, releasing Sherlock's hands. "Stop crying. Here…" He reached for something on the nightstand and held it out to Sherlock. His pirate hat. He studied it for a moment, allowing it to slide into focus through the veil of tears; a white feather plume stuck out the top, skull and crossbones emblazoned across the front. "Put it on."

Sherlock took it, placing it squarely on his head. It slipped to one side, falling into his eyes.

"There you are," said Mycroft. "Captain Holmes. Now, stop this nonsense, Sherlock. Captains don't cry."

And so he stopped.

* * *

Years later, sitting in a dark alley with his head against the bricks, mind reeling as it rode out the high, he would remember that night. He remembered the pride he had felt at the title. _Captain Holmes_. Captain Holmes that didn't cry, Captain Holmes that weathered the storms beating against the hull of his ribcage when the waves attempted to drown his heart, Captain Holmes that would listen to his parents scream at night and hear way the other boys talked about him behind his back and to his face and not feel _anything_. Captain Holmes was brave. Captain Holmes was free from the chains of addiction that bound him now, tying his hungry veins in slipknots. What would the good captain think, to see him like this? A weak man on the dirty ground, thoughts beginning to trickle back through the atmosphere of blissful flight and align themselves on a crash course set straight for planet earth. Where had that little boy gone? Who was this stranger in his body, wasting himself for the few moments of flight before the fall?

As if from another dimension, another plane of consciousness, he watched the headlights approaching his alley, two bright stars casting a spotlight on his shame. He hid his face before he could see the sleek black car crawling into view.

"Sherlock." He didn't realize a man had gotten out of the car and approached him until he had spoken his name. The young man looked up to see a silhouetted figure in the blinding light of the car, reaching out a hand towards him. "Come on, Captain," said Mycroft, his tone unreadable. "It's time to reclaim your ship."

* * *

**This literally started with me seeing a robin outside my window and an empty Word document sitting open on my laptop, with no intention of finishing any sort of short little story whatsoever, but I have to admit that I kind of sorta really like this one. So, yeah.**

**If you enjoyed, please leave a review!**


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